


I think it's crap, Colin

by Echo7



Series: Simply Can't Help Themselves [7]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo7/pseuds/Echo7
Summary: Delia is just trying to make friends. Even if it means going to this ridiculous party.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Series: Simply Can't Help Themselves [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072544
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	I think it's crap, Colin

**Author's Note:**

> Let's all journey back to 2017. A simpler time when we could all congregate together and Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi was yet to hit theaters. Delia Busby was new to London and looking to make some new friends.
> 
> This little story is both part of our Holiday 2020 (yes, I am fashionably late to this party) meet-cute series and a prequel to my own little AU along with _Laugh it up, fuzzball_ and _You're going to need a bigger boat._ I hope you enjoy this late holiday gift. 
> 
> Happy 2021 everyone!

Delia tugged at the collar of her jumper as she followed her new flatmate off the Number 15 bus and onto the pavement. She looked around at the unfamiliar street, barely registering a sign for Chrisp Street Market before she was darting off in the other direction after the familiar brunette bob floating above the Friday night crowd. Cursing her small stature, Delia hurried to catch up, pushing her way through a swaying hen night party debating how to get to the next stop on their pub crawl. She stumbled as she finally broke free of the crowd and huffed in relief when she spotted Chummy waiting at the corner, phone in hand.

“Which way is north, do you reckon?” she asked, peering down at the route mapped out on her phone screen.

Delia adjusted her collar again as she tried to catch her breath. She looked back the way they had come, mentally retracing her steps until she could align their route to the bus, which she was fairly certain had been traveling east. “That way, I think,” she said pointing to the right. 

Chummy squinted down the street, looking doubtful, and Delia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She might be from a small town in southwest Wales, but she, unlike her native Londoner flatmate, had yet to get lost during the time they had lived together. But instead of taking Chummy’s doubt to heart, Delia chose to take this moment of pause to turn her face into the cool evening breeze. The synthetic knit of her jumper was making her feel hot and itchy. Not exactly the first impression she was going for tonight. She just wished she would stop sweating.

Of course it would probably help if she unbuttoned her jacket. Which, she categorically refused to do. True, it would make her less warm, but given what she was wearing, no less uncomfortable. 

Not that it mattered, really. At over six feet tall, Chummy was never what one might call inconspicuous. But tonight she had chosen to forego a coat so her red and green, tinsel-trimmed, knitted monstrosity was, quite literally, flashing like a beacon at every passerby anyway, making Delia feel tacky by association.

She sighed, mentally reminding herself that it was sweet of her flatmate’s coworker to have included her in the invitation to the party tonight. She was new to the city after all, and this was a good opportunity to meet new people.  _ And _ , most of the people that were going to be there tonight were people from the hospital, so she had a good chance of  _ actually _ being able to see these new people again and potentially even make a friend or two.

But,  _ honestly _ .

Who throws a Christmas-themed birthday party in September?

Barbara Gilbert, apparently.

Delia had only met the brunette midwife a few times when, on the few days a week when their shifts aligned, she had wandered down to the Birth Centre to meet Chummy to walk home together. Barbara had always struck her as friendly, if a little too earnest, which, when she thought about it, tracked perfectly with tonight’s festivities.

_ She was here to meet new people. She was here to meet new people _ , she repeated to herself as she followed Chummy up the stairs towards the sounds of Sir Paul McCartney singing what was quite possibly the most annoying Christmas song ever recorded.

Great. That was going to be in her head for days, now. God, she hoped there would at least be some queer people here. 

Delia could really use some queer friends. Chummy was honestly a wonderful person and a total delight to live with, but if Delia had to watch one more bloody decade-old straight romcom she might strangle her flatmate with a pair of Bridget Jones’ allegedly enormous underpants. What was it with straight women’s fascination with Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, anyway? 

They paused in front of Barbara’s door, and Chummy turned to her, giving her an appraising once-over. “Ready, old bean?” Delia couldn’t help but smile at that. She really did find it incredibly endearing how Chummy sometimes spoke like she stepped right out of a Jeeves and Wooster novel. 

“As I’ll ever be,” she said, unbuttoning her denim jacket at last to reveal her own ugly Christmas jumper. It might not light up, but Delia’s was arguably more colourful than Chummy’s. The essence of the design was classic - symmetrical rows of reindeer, snowflakes, and trees silhouetted against a solid black background. But underneath the black was a garish rainbow stripe that was so bright it practically vibrated, perfectly highlighting the pun emblazoned across the front: Don We Now Our Gay Apparel. 

But bright as Delia’s jumper was, it paled in comparison to what was awaiting them on the other side of the flat’s door.

It was like stepping into a Christmas shop on steroids. From her position by the coat rack, Delia could count three Christmas trees already, and all she could see of the flat was the hall and bathroom. It seemed as if every possible object was strung with lights and tinsel. God, there was so much tinsel. The entire place seemed to glitter.

“Gosh, it’s all terribly shiny, isn’t it?” Chummy said, looking an odd combination of repulsed and transfixed, which if Delia hadn’t been so blinded by the blinking lights, she might have found rather ironic coming from someone with actual mirrored baubles hanging from the appliqued foil tinsel on their light up, bright green jumper.

Instead, Delia could only blink, feeling slightly dazed. “You could say that.”

“Don’t worry, your eyes will adjust eventually,” came a voice from their left.

Delia turned to find a vaguely familiar, middle-aged woman standing beside them, squinting out into the multicoloured vortex ahead of them like she was a general surveying her troops on parade. Strangely, her blue and white, sparkly snowman cardigan only seemed to enhance her aura of utter authority.

“Good evening, Nurse Crane,” Chummy greeted, and Delia suddenly understood. She had heard all about the deputy sister-in-charge. According to Chummy, she was a sort of mother figure to many of the midwives in the Birth Centre and as such, could be both loving and strict. “This is a lovely surprise, I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” she said, sounding genuinely thrilled, “This is my flatmate, Delia Busby. She works at the London too, but as a theatre nurse.”

Nurse Crane smiled, and Delia could suddenly see the warmth she hid behind her stern persona. “Do call me Phyllis,” she said, reaching out and giving Delia a firm handshake in greeting, “At least for this evening. It is a party after all.”

“Quite,” Chummy said, voice as plummy and bright as ever, “Speaking of, do you know where we might find the birthday girl?”

“Last I saw her, she was in the sitting room,” Phyllis told them, pointing in the direction where, in an apparent ex-Beatle rock-block, John Lennon was singing his own unique addition to the Christmas song canon. “Don’t worry,” she added, smiling fondly, “You can’t miss her.”

Phyllis was right. 

Barbara almost looked as if she was doing a sloppy job at cosplaying a guard from Buckingham Palace. Her uniform jacket was the right shade of red despite its comically large gold buttons, but her trousers were bright blue instead of black with a gold stripe up each leg. Her tall black hat was smooth instead of furry, with a giant gold band around the base and a truly enormous white feather plume that kept brushing the room’s tin ceiling. Huge solid red circles adorned both of her cheeks and a straight, dark black line had been drawn down from the corner of her mouth on either side of her chin, framing a fuzzy white goatee.

“She’s a goddamn nutcracker,” Delia muttered.

“Quite,” Chummy said, looking slightly stunned.

The pair made their way over to wish Barbara a happy birthday and ask where they could put their gifts.

“Oh, Delia, you didn’t have to bring me something. You barely know me,” she said, her eyebrows creased with sincerity.

Delia smiled. Barbara was really very sweet. “Of course I did. It’s your birthday, and you were nice enough to invite me even though you barely know _ me _ , either.”

Sure, the theme was ridiculous, and Delia got quite enough of Christmas music during the proper season, but if this was the price to pay for making friends with people as kind and genuine as Barbara and Chummy, she thought it might just be worth it.

“Well, thank you. And you both can just put your gifts under the tree.”

Delia and Chummy looked around at the four separate trees crowded around the modest sitting room. Chummy spoke first. “Errr… which one?” she asked.

Barbara smiled, extending her arms magnanimously. “Whichever you’d like.”

Just then, a man appeared at Barbara’s side to deliver a drink. Barbara put her arm around his waist and placed a kiss on his stubbly cheek in thanks. He nodded a hello at Chummy, and Barbara introduced him to Delia as her boyfriend, Tom.

Tom was cute, Delia supposed. Brown hair and blue eyes, with a certain boyish charm that she knew some straight girls found captivating. But for her part, Delia felt there was something off-putting about him. Though, to be fair, his jumper wasn’t doing him any favours in that regard.

Delia herself had chosen her own Christmas jumper in order to project a certain statement about herself, and so, apparently, had Tom. His jumper was black and speckled with white knitted snowflakes to resemble the winter night sky. The words ‘Big Gift Energy’ ran across the chest in a lurid yellow above a scene of Santa with his legs in a chimney, presumably having gotten stuck on his way down owing to the large, elongated, vertical package that he was holding. All in all, not a good look. At least not in her, admittedly very gay, book. Nevertheless, she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the longer they all stood chatting, the more Delia couldn’t help but think that she was the only one in the group who was accurately embodying their chosen sweater slogan. Tom seemed nice enough she guessed, but Delia thought he was a little too smarmy for someone as seemingly genuine as Barbara.

Ugh, she needed to stop. She was here to meet people and hopefully make new friends, and standing there judging her host’s choice in a significant other was not exactly the way to go about it. She didn’t know Tom. He could be perfectly lovely. And sure, the Christmas theme might not have been a choice she would have ever made, but Barbara seemed to be entirely in her element.

It was time she got into the spirit. And, she thought, what better way to do that than by getting into the spirits. So, taking the first opportunity she could, Delia excused herself to go find a drink, placing her gift under a sparkly pink plastic tree on her way.

The kitchen seemed to be lit entirely by fairy lights, and in Delia’s freshly-determined positive outlook, she chose to find the effect charming rather than dim. Regardless, she had to admit it did feel rather festive. There was a small blue tree on the benchtop that seemed to be Doctor Who themed - complete with shiny gold dalek baubles, a weeping angel tree-topper, and garland that appeared to be patterned after the fourth Doctor’s scarf. At the kitchen table, craft supplies had been set up for guests to make snowflakes to add to the blizzard growing on the wall or create a handmade holiday-themed birthday card. But it was the smell of the room that really rounded off the holiday feel. It was spicy and a bit sweet, and reminded her of her mam’s kitchen when she boiled the Christmas pudding.

Delia made her way over to the assortment of bottles near the sink and soon found the source of the aroma coming from a slow cooker. She took the lid off and got a faceful of nostalgia as she breathed in the citrus and spices mulling in warm red wine.

“Be careful of that,” a voice warned, “Winifred put enough brandy in to fell a horse. Claimed she was following her great aunt’s recipe who was a nun, apparently. I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall in that convent.”

Delia laughed, placing the lid back on the mulled wine and turning to find a tall, rather handsome man in a well-tailored red and green tartan suit grinning down at her with what could only be described as mischief twinkling in his grey eyes. Though to be fair, it could have just been the plethora of fairy lights.

“And mind you,” the man went on, “I’ve never been one to give more than a passing thought to what goes on in a convent,” he paused, tilting his head from side to side as if considering something, “A monastery, on the other hand…” He grinned.

Delia grinned back, her dimples sinking deep into her cheeks as she felt that little thrill of recognition and familiarity she always got upon meeting another queer person.

“Tony,” the man said, offering his hand.

“Delia,” she returned, taking it.

“So, Delia. How did you find yourself here on this jolly September eve?” he asked, holding up a bottle of gin and giving it a little shake in question.

She nodded, passing him a cup and the bottle of tonic. “My flatmate works with the birthday girl.”

“Ah, one of the midwives. Which one?”

“Chummy.”

Tony paused his pouring and grinned, devilishly. “The lovely Camilla Fortescue-Cholmondeley-Browne. Oh Delia, Delia, Delia,” he said, topping their glasses off with the tonic, “It is fortuitous that we met. I’ve been trying to fix her up with my mate Peter for an age,” he said nodding towards the craft table where a shy looking man in a Rudolph jumper was standing awkwardly next to a blushing Chummy. They were both trying to look and simultaneously  _ not _ look at each other. It was like watching a couple of preteens at a school disco trying to get up the courage to ask the other to dance. 

So that was Peter. Delia had cottoned on weeks ago that Chummy had a bit of a crush on him. Ok, maybe more than a bit. Hence all the romcoms she’d been forced to watch.

Tony leaned in. “Excruciating, isn’t it?” he asked in an overly dramatic whisper, “We  _ have _ to do something.”

Delia was never one to play matchmaker, but she wasn’t entirely opposed to providing a nudge where it was needed, either. That was just being a good friend, after all.

She raised one eyebrow at her new acquaintance - and potential new friend. “What did you have in mind?”

Tony lowered his head, conspiratorially, but before they could begin scheming in earnest, a teasing voice floated over the chatter.

“Tony, sweetie. They’re playing your song.”

Tony looked up, cocking his head like a listening labrador for a moment before his face scrunched up as if he had just sucked on a lemon. Delia listened too. The song was familiar, but the version wasn’t. She didn’t think she had ever heard “Santa Baby” sung by a man before.

“This was your doing wasn’t it?” Tony asked, lowering one eyebrow as he mock-glared at a blonde woman sitting at the high bar-style corner of the benchtop. 

The woman in question was perched on one of the stools, looking rather too elegant for the gaudy setting in her classic vintage cream and red fair isle sweater and tailored ankle-length trousers. Her short platinum blonde hair was curled and pinned back on one side in a sort of fifties style, and her winged eyeliner and bright red lipstick completed her retro look. Beside her, the other stool was occupied by a woman with gorgeous red hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. She too seemed to have decided to forego the more obvious holiday-themed attire and had instead chosen a loose buffalo check flannel button down tucked into high-waisted black skinny jeans, finishing the look with brown leather lace-up brogues. Like the blonde, she too wore cherry red lipstick, but her eyeliner and mascara were more lightly applied, which, in Delia’s opinion, just made her big blue eyes stand out all the better.

Tony stepped over to them, and without really giving it much thought, Delia drifted after him.

“Me?” the blonde asked, obviously feigning innocence. “What makes you think I had anything whatsoever to do with it?”

“Because we all know you and Shelagh did all the planning and work for this party because Tom is utterly worthless and cannot perform even the simplest task without finding a woman to do it for him.” the redhead stated matter-of-factly before wordlessly clinking her glass with Tony’s and taking a sip.

“He’s not  _ completely _ worthless,” the blonde said, her voice already sapped of argument before she could even get started. 

In lieu of response, Tony and the redheaded woman simply raised identical, dubious eyebrows.

“Fine,” the blonde huffed, waving her hands around to clear the air, “He  _ is _ worthless. But Barbara still deserves a wonderful birthday party despite her dreadful taste in men,” she held up a finger, effectively cutting off whatever comment Tony was about to offer, “And yes, I do fully appreciate the irony of that statement, so do keep your witty remarks to yourself, Tony Amos.”

Tony raised his hands in innocence, “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yes you were.” the redhead stated.

“Yes, I was.” Tony smiled. “But only because you, Trixie Franklin,” he pointed at the blonde woman, “Put this horrible, ‘no homo’ version of this song on your playlist instead of Eartha Kitt’s. If Michale  Bublé wants to sing this song, then he should _ sing this song _ . ‘Santa  _ buddy _ . I’ll wait up for you,  _ dude _ ,’” he scoffed, “Honestly, he might as well sing,  _ ‘Santa pally, I forgot to mention one little thing, I’m not gay, Completely hetero here,’ _ ” he sang putting his hands on his hips and trying, Delia thought, for lack of a better word, to look butch. He rolled his eyes, returning to his normal speaking voice, “I hate this song.”

“It is terrible,” the blonde - Trixie - agreed, “But,” she patted his hand and grinned, “I do love torturing you, sweetie.”

Tony shot her a lopsided smile, “Likewise.”

“Speaking of horrible versions of pop songs and light torture,” the redhead said, “Trix, please tell me that you were joking when you said that we were all going to watch  _ Love, Actually  _ tonight.”

Trixie turned to her friend, looking perplexed. “What’s wrong with  _ Love, Actually _ ?”

The redhead stared at her, eyes wide and looking utterly incredulous. “What  _ isn’t _ wrong with  _ Love, Actually _ ?”

“Don’t mind her,” joked Tony, “We all know she’s a grinch when it comes to both Christmas  _ and _ romance.”

Trixie hummed, “I do admire her ability to multitask.”

“Hey!” exclaimed the redhead, wagging an admonishing finger, “You both are just as bad as me about Christmas,” she said, earning conceding head tilts from her companions, “And I am not against romance. I just happen to be of the opinion that there is not one single example of healthy relationship dynamics in that entire film,” she bit her lip, looking thoughtful, “Aside from perhaps the couple doing stand-in work on the porn set.”

Two things happened at once. Tony performed a spectacular spit-take, spraying gin and tonic across the benchtop and the bottom half of Trixie’s jumper, and at the same time, Delia let out an equally spectacularly loud guffaw. Whilst Tony grabbed some napkins to help blot the spilt drink from Trixie’s sleeves, Delia felt herself being watched and came to the sudden, horrifying realisation that she had been standing there eavesdropping on the group’s entire conversation like a gigantic creep. She blushed, feeling herself begin to sweat again, but this time she couldn’t blame her itchy jumper. This time it was one hundred percent pure mortification.

She began to inch away, deciding it would be better to slink back to the sitting room and take her chances with having to force conversation with Barbara’s boyfriend than to remain in the kitchen and make everyone feel uncomfortable. Especially because the redhead just kept staring at her with her big, rather gorgeous, blue eyes. Why did Delia always have to make a fool of herself in front of beautiful women? 

An apology began to tumble out of her mouth as she turned to go, but Tony interrupted her. “Oh how rude of me,” he said, throwing an arm over her shoulders to prevent her escape, “Delia, these two lovely ladies are my dear friends Beatrix Franklin and Patience Mount.”

“Trixie,” the blonde said, crumpling up the last of the damp napkins and giving her a little wave.

“Patsy,” the redhead corrected.

Tony continued on as if he hadn’t heard them. “Ladies, may I present Delia…” his voice dropped to a whisper as turned to her, “...I don’t know your surname.”

Delia chuckled. “Busby.”

Tony stood up straight, once again adopting the air of some grand Victorian gentleman, “Delia Busby, flatmate to the esteemed  Camilla Fortescue-Cholmondeley-Browne.”

“You are a ridiculous man,” Trixie said, shaking her head but looking fond.

Tony shrugged. “I was committed to the bit.”

Patsy it seemed, chose to ignore them both, “It’s lovely to meet you, Delia.”

Tony’s arm was still around her shoulders, and he used his leverage to steer Delia to the other side of the breakfast bar across from Trixie and Patsy.

“I’m sorry,” Delia apologised, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Trixie waved her off. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. It’s a party, the more the merrier, especially at Christmas.”

“It’s September,” Patsy muttered wearily.

If Trixie heard her, she ignored it. “So, as I gather, you heard Patsy’s rather heretical take on  _ Love, Actually _ . What are your thoughts?

Delia felt suddenly self-conscious. She knew her opinions - had rather strong ones, actually - but she usually liked to ease herself into new social interactions with a group. Dip her toe in and get a feel for the water, so to speak, before wading in. But here Trixie was, asking her to jump.

“Trix, don’t put her on the spot,” Patsy admonished, shooting her friend a rather pointed look, “We only just met, we don’t want to run her off straight away.”

It was kind of Patsy to try to save her, but for some reason, Delia found herself  _ wanting _ to share her opinions. To dive in. These people seemed fun and funny, and so at ease with one another. Delia wanted to be a part of that.

And besides, Patsy’s choice of shirt might not be as explicit of an advertisement of her sexuality as Delia’s own, but it was definitely a clue worth investigating. Because Patsy Mount was very definitely Delia’s type.

“ _ Actually _ ,” she said, laughing a bit self-consciously at her terrible pun, “I don’t mind sharing. Although Trixie, I hate to tell you, I agree with Patsy, here.”

“No!”

“Yes,” she said, unable to fight back a grin at the scandalised and vindicated looks on Trixie and Patsy’s respective faces, “The porn couple is the only couple who have actual back-and-forth conversations with each other. And I must say, I find it ironic that the workplace where the employees are naked and actively groping each other is the only one depicted that isn’t rife with sexual harassment. Honestly, I would love a plotline that is just a beleaguered HR rep going home to his dog after having to deal with all the complaints at wherever Alan Rickman and Laura Linney work.”

“Exactly!” Patsy exclaimed, leaning forward on her stool, “I mean, who calls an  _ employee _ into their office to basically tell them it’s high time they shagged the guy from accounting or wherever?” 

Trixie frowned, “I suppose that  _ is _ rather unprofessional.” She shot Patsy a look, smirking mischievously, “I can’t imagine Julienne pulling you aside to tell you to put us all out of our misery and ask out that nurse you’ve been eyeing for the past few weeks.”

Patsy fell silent as her face turned nearly as red as her hair, and Delia felt an unexpected pang of disappointment begin to gnaw at her stomach. Where was that coming from? Sure Patsy was cute - okay, Patsy was _beautiful_ , and interesting, and funny, and had Delia mentioned, exactly her type - but she was here to make friends. Just friends.

The group continued chatting, quickly moving on from the topic of  _ Love, Actually _ to other films they enjoyed - or hated. The conversation meandered and flowed, and by the time Tony had delivered another round of drinks, Delia found herself thinking that she might just have achieved her goal of actually making friends tonight. 

After a while, a woman in a penguin jumper with stylish horn rimmed glasses popped her head into the kitchen. Her eyes found Trixie, and the pair had some sort of silent conversation that led to Trixie excusing herself and retrieving a pastry box that had been hidden in the broom cupboard, of all places. 

“Oh thank God,” Tony said, eyeing the yule log cake Trixie and the other woman were carefully transferring to a plate, “I was afraid we were going to be forced to eat Christmas cake. I can only take that once a year, tops.”

“Now who’s the grinch,” Patsy teased, getting to her feet and beginning to rummage through a drawer. After a moment’s searching she emerged triumphant with a box of matches, which Trixie took from her to light the neat row of candles she had placed along the length of the cake.

“Quick, before they drip,” she said, making eye contact with the woman in the penguin sweater as they both began to sing.

Automatically, the rest of the guests in the kitchen joined in, and they all followed Trixie - and the cake - out into the hall. Barbara was practically beaming when they reached her. She was still stationed in much the same place as Delia had last seen her, and the red painted circles on her cheeks were cracked from all the smiling she had obviously been doing all evening. She bounced eagerly on her toes until their singing finally concluded, and despite her enthusiasm, it took her three tries to blow out all the candles. She blushed and grinned as everyone clapped and cheered.

Delia drifted along the periphery as the cake was cut and distributed, content to just watch everyone laugh and mingle for a moment. It was nice, feeling a part of a group like this again. She really was lucky to have found such a wonderful flatmate in Chummy - she’d heard such horror stories, particularly from her mam - but until that moment, she hadn’t truly realised how lonely she had been in London. How isolated. But now, leaning against the wall beside a flashing fiber optic Christmas tree in a crowded sitting room in the middle of September, London didn’t feel so big anymore. It even felt like it could someday feel like home. Her home.

Barbara stood up to give a speech, thanking Tom, Trixie, and Shelagh - who Delia realised, must be the woman in the penguin jumper - for organising her party. Delia couldn’t help but seek out Patsy, catching her muttering something out of the corner of her mouth as a smiling Trixie surreptitiously elbowed her in the side. As Barbara continued on, she watched as Patsy put her arm around her friend’s waist and squeezed, saying something that Delia was too far away to hear, but it looked like,  _ “You’re a good friend.”  _ Delia couldn’t help but agree.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out to celebrate with me tonight. I know this theme isn’t for everyone,” Barbara said, grinning lopsidedly as she seemed to pick out particular people in the crowd, and Delia felt surprisingly touched when those green eyes rested on her for a moment. “But you all made me feel very special tonight. So, thank you. I know it’s getting late and some of you need to get home and settle down for a long winter's nap,” she paused as everyone generously laughed at her terrible joke, “But the rest of you sugarplums are welcome to join me in watching one of my all-time favourite Christmas films.”

A collective gasp swept through them all as the fairy lights were suddenly switched off, and Delia momentarily felt mildly dazed with the afterimage of all the rainbow pinpricks of light still swimming in her vision. A moment later, the entire room blazed a brilliant blue as the startup screen from a projector shone large on the wall opposite the sofa.

Delia blinked and squinted as her vision adjusted, and when she could finally see properly, she noticed Patsy looking at her from across the room. Patsy raised her eyebrows and nodded back towards the kitchen, and Delia gave a silent, if slightly exaggerated sigh of gratitude.

“Good idea,” Delia whispered as soon as they were safely back in the warmth of the kitchen. “I am trying to do my best to make a good first impression at this party, but I don’t think groaning every time someone makes a ridiculous comment about Natalie’s weight will endear me to Barbara or her guests.”

“It might to some,” Patsy said, giving her a soft smile, and retaking her stool from earlier. Delia couldn’t help but smile at that, feeling a sudden happy warmth filling her chest. Was Patsy flirting with her? She couldn’t be could she. Not after what Trixie had said. “Besides,” Patsy went on, patting the empty stool beside her in invitation, “I for one am glad to have someone to talk to or else I’d be all alone in here.”

That was  _ definitely _ flirting, wasn’t it?

Delia took the seat, swinging around so that she was facing Patsy rather than the benchtop. Patsy mirrored her, and Delia felt a little thrill when the redhead rested one of her feet on the rung of Delia’s stool.

“Well then,” Delia said, smiling slyly. It was quiet in the kitchen, warm and cozy with the smell of the spiced wine and the glow of the fairy lights making Patsy’s hair shine like copper. “What do you want to talk about, now that you have me here?”

“Nothing too devious,” Patsy assured her, her mouth quirking up in a cute little fish hook smile. “Tell me, how are you adjusting to the London?” she asked.

“It’s bigger than the hospital where I trained in Wales, and busier, but I like that. The pace of it. Do you know what I mean?”

Over Patsy’s shoulder, she saw Trixie return, taking the empty cake plate over to the sink. Delia could faintly hear the cover of “Love Is All Around” from the opening credits playing from the other room. 

Patsy nodded. “I always prefer a busy day to a slow day. Slow days make you feel like you’re just marking time.”

“Exactly,” Delia said, “But I also like the work too. Maybe I’m just biased because I was so eager to leave home, but I feel like I’ve seen more interesting cases here in a month than I did the entire time I was training in Pembrokeshire.”

Patsy hummed, “I don’t doubt it. I saw all sorts too when I was a theatre nurse,” she chuckled, “Part of what made me want to retrain as a midwife, actually.”

Delia looked at her, suddenly curious. “How did you know I was a theatre nurse?”

“Errr...” Patsy said, shifting uncomfortably on her stool. Behind her, Trixie paused in her tidying up. “I suppose Chummy must have mentioned it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Delia registered that Trixie was making her way over to the table, but her attention was suddenly fixed on the woman in front of her who was determinedly avoiding eye contact. She got the distinct impression that Patsy had just lied to her, and rather poorly at that.

Something white flashed from behind Patsy, and Delia looked over her shoulder to see Trixie holding up a piece of card from the crafting supplies with ‘Chummy didn’t tell her’ scribbled hastily on it in black marker. 

_ Wait, what? _

Trixie was grinning smugly as she let that card fall and behind it, another one read, ‘Who do you think the nurse is that she’s had her eye on.’ 

_ Holy shit. _

Patsy had had her eye on her.  _ Patsy _ had had her eye on  _ Delia _ . For  _ weeks _ .

Thank God Patsy was still avoiding looking at her, because Delia knew her face was a picture of shock and surprise. Trixie looked exceedingly proud of herself as she let that card fall too, leaving her innocently empty handed just as Patsy finally seemed to realise something was going on.

“What are you doing, Trixie?” she asked, eyeing her friend suspiciously as she bent down to retrieve the fallen cue cards.

“Don’t mind me. I was just tidying up a bit while everyone’s watching the film,” she said, scooping up some stray bits of paper clippings from the floor and sweeping them into the recycling bin along with the incriminating evidence. “I’ll leave you ladies to it,” she said, crooking her fingers in a little wave as she made meaningful eye contact with the redhead and shot a wink at Delia.

By the time Patsy turned back around, Delia had managed to outwardly bury her shock, but her excitement only grew as she noticed that Patsy’s cheeks were tinged a little pink from Trixie’s departure.

Patsy took a deep breath. “So... where were we?”

Delia arched an eyebrow, lowering her voice and leaning in, “I believe you were about to tell me how you really knew I was a theatre nurse.”

Patsy blushed beautifully at the call out. Delia expected her to give a vague excuse or at least change the subject back to work or some other innocuous topic, but instead, she did something entirely unexpected. Patsy leaned in too, her look suddenly turning a little smoky as she gazed up at Delia through her mascara covered lashes. “I have a feeling you might already know.”

Delia was the one blushing now, and thankfully, this time it had nothing whatsoever to do with embarrassment or her damn jumper. She might have come here tonight hoping to make a friend or two. But, now that she thought about it, maybe friendship wasn’t everything.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
